


I Always Wanted A Real Home (with flowers on the window sill)

by LayALioness



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gilmore Girls Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fake/Pretend Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 11:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8160911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: Whenever Bellamy has a question he can’t answer for himself, he usually goes to Octavia. But this involves Octavia, and he doesn’t want her to feel like she’s putting any sort of pressure on him, by going to this school.So that leaves Lexa, and Miller. Bellamy calls them both.“Bonjeur,” Miller says, because he’s pretentious.“What,” Lexa says, because she’s an ass.“I need a lifeline,” Bellamy says, because he’s desperate. Two heavy sighs echo through the phone.“Whatever you broke, just replace it,” Miller suggests, and Bellamy honestly doesn’t even know why he tries.“Clarke wants us to pretend to be engaged so her super rich parents will pay for Octavia’s expensive prep school.”There’s a long pause, which Bellamy sort of wants to revel in. It’s certainly the longest he’s ever heard either of them go without being a smart ass.Finally, Miller says “Why engaged?” right as Lexa demands “Clarke has parents?”Gilmore Girls AU





	

If anyone asked Bellamy what he thought about Ark Hollow, he’d say the town is the fourth-best thing that’s ever happened to him.

The first is his sister--even if, at sixteen years old, she’s steadily becoming more and more of a brat-with-a-capital-B. She’s still his favorite person and, even though it’s sort of lame, she’s still his best friend.

The third is his job, which he just kind of stumbled into on his third day in Ark Hollow, when the staff supervisor of the inn they were staying at won the Connecticut state lottery and immediately skipped town. Bellamy knew absolutely nothing about running an inn--he hadn’t even known _ inns _ were still a thing until then, but the owner said he had _ presence _ , which he’s still fairly sure was just a nice way to say he seemed bossy. Which is fine; it’s not like Marcus was _ wrong _ , after all.

And the second best thing that’s ever happened to him is Clarke Griffin.

She was the reason he even got his job in the first place, because she was the one who told him about the inn. She was the first person he ever met in Ark Hollow, because she runs the only diner, and he wasn’t in the mood for Chinese.

He probably should have just gone to a bar, but Octavia was out in the car sleeping and he wanted to stay sober, just in case.

The diner was completely empty, save for the blonde girl behind the counter, who was sweeping up. That really should have been the first indication that he should leave, but he was _ hungry _ and it’d been a long day of driving, and honestly he just couldn’t find the energy to turn around. So instead he sat down at the bar and waited for the blonde girl to notice him.

She did, obviously, but instead of rushing over to take his order, she sort of wrinkled up her nose and _ grimaced _ , sighed hugely, and then sat the broom against the wall with a little more force than he thought was altogether necessary.

“What do you want?” she asked, not _ rudely _ , but in an abrupt enough way that Bellamy was thrown for a second.

“Nice customer service,” he said and looking back on it, that was probably the second-to-worst thing he could have responded with, right after _ you look tired _ , which was also on the tip of his tongue, because when Bellamy fails at something, he likes to fail spectacularly. He refers to it as Icarus Syndrome. Mostly everyone else just says that it’s him being a dumbass.

The girl scowled. “ _ I’m _ sorry that I just got off of a twelve-hour shift because my only employee didn’t show up for work today,” she snapped. “And that I forgot to lock the door, since I technically closed half an hour ago, but I’m not used to bitchbag tourists coming in this late.”

Bellamy could have snapped back, and dug himself into an even deeper hole, and if he was less tire he probably would have. But instead he just snorted without really meaning to, and said “ _ Bitchbag _ ? I’ve never heard that one before. Creative.”

“That’s what I get for being an art geek,” the girl says, albeit a little less hostile. She eyed him up and down and must have determined that he looked as shitty as he felt, because she gave a smaller sigh, popped out a hip and said “So what do you want, anyway?”

“That depends. Do you have a hotel room tucked in the back of this diner?”

She pursed her lips, which he was pretty sure meant she was fighting a smile, and finally shook her head. “The lease wouldn’t cover it. But there’s an inn two blocks over. Check-in is twenty-four hours, if you’re really desperate. In the meantime, why don’t we start with coffee?”

Bellamy grinned, fighting the urge to rub his aching, tired eyes. He should have taken his contacts out hours ago, but he hated doing that in the gas station bathrooms. He was paranoid about accidentally dropping them down the grimy sinks. “Yeah, coffee sounds great.”

She poured the last of what was already in the carafe into a chipped porcelain mug so big he had to hold it with both hands. He was pretty sure the fact that it was the last of the pot meant that it was old, stale, and possibly burnt, but as long as it was hot enough to nearly scald, he didn’t really care. She turned around and sat it in front of him along with one of those metal caddies for ketchup and sugar packets. Then she leaned one elbow on the counter top and laid her chin in her hand. “So, tourist, you got a name?”

Bellamy made a face. “I’m not really a _ tourist _ .”

“Okay, so what are you? A trucker?”

“Definitely not,” he snorted into his coffee. It was both stale _ and _ burnt, but somehow it was perfect anyway. It was possible that he was growing delirious from exhaustion. “I’m uh, more like a wayfarer?”

The girl smirked, and he probably shouldn’t have stared at the mole on her upper lip for so long, but honestly it was like a target for his eyes. He couldn’t help it. She was very pretty--mustard-stained jeans and messy bun and all. “Yeah, that sounds _ way _ better than _ tourist. _ ”

He grinned against the rim of his cup. “Bellamy,” he said, finally. “I’m Bellamy.”

“And I’m Clarke,” she reached across the counter to shake his hand, which felt both oddly formal and a little charming. Plus, she was smirking again. “Welcome to Ark Hollow.”

 

Now it’s been four years, almost to the day, since Bellamy first rolled into town, and several things about his life here have changed, but Clarke has always been his constant.

She’s the first person he calls, when the inn is giving him a headache and he can’t stand to look at another emailed customer complaint. She’s the first person he texts when Octavia is giving him a hard time about clothes or boys or school or how she just wants to drop out and travel the world as a groupie for that European rock band she’s into. She’s the second person he sees every morning, after he’s rustled his sister out of bed and into something besides pajamas--or sometimes just the pajamas if they’re running late--and off to the eleventh grade.

Except Clarke’s the first person he’s going to see today, because it’s the last day of summer vacation and O doesn’t get back from lacrosse camp until two, and he needs a cup of fresh coffee from the diner before he can function like a human being.

Clarke Griffin is the only person Bellamy has ever met who’s as grumpy as he is, while still actually _ caring _ about everyone around her. He likes being able to shit talk their neighbors together and still know that they’d both come running if anyone really _ needed _ their help. It’s nice knowing he isn’t the only one.

She’s fuming behind the register when he walks into the diner, the quaint kind of place that might be featured on a Top-50-Small-Town-Eateries-To-Visit article in _ The Wallstreet Journal _ , with no dangling fly stickers or questionable vinyl stains in sight. There is an old jukebox in the corner, to complete the aesthetic, but it only plays three David Bowie tracks, so nobody ever uses it. He’s not sure Clarke even knows how to turn it on.

Across from her, Cage Wallace, the town busybody, is pointing at something in the local newspaper, and he doesn’t look very pleased. To be fair though, Cage Wallace never looks pleased. He looks like he never listened when he was a kid, and everyone told him to be careful, or his face would get stuck like that.

Everything about the picture in front of him looks like a ticking time bomb, so Bellamy straightens his tie--the one Octavia got him as a Christmas present for their first year in town. It’s covered in cow spots, because she’d been going through a phase where all she wanted to do was be a cowgirl, and watch over the cows--and sidles up behind the register, beside Clarke. Technically, this isn’t allowed, but. Being best friends with the diner’s owner means he can get away with a certain amount of things.

“What are you whining about now, Cage,” Bellamy says, mild. He feels Clarke lean into his side, sagging a little, a wordless _ Thank God you’re here _ . But then she steels her spine again and glares back at the town secretary. “I don’t care _ what _ the paper says; you’re not getting a free breakfast just because you’re a civil servant. What do you even _ do _ at Town Hall?”

“I am an integral member of this community,” Cage splutters, outraged. Whereas most people generally get pink with rage--see: Clarke--Cage just sort of gets even paler, and pointier. It makes him resemble one of those black and white film vampires, with all the white powder stage makeup. Bellamy thinks he kind of makes it work, in a Disney villain sort of way. “Unlike _ you _ charlatans!”

“Now, now,” Bellamy says. “That probably isn’t the way you want to talk to the person who prepares your food, and the one who--well, I know you don’t need a room _ now _ , but what if your house flooded? The floor fell through? Your house had to be fumigated? Where would you go, Cage? Emerson’s house?”

Emerson is the town treasurer. No one’s really sure what he does, either. He’s sort of like the Igor to Cage’s Dr. Frankenstein. Every month at the town meeting, he brings up the idea of population control by limiting every person to two children only, Bellamy can’t remember why. Nobody ever really listens anymore, when he speaks.

Cage just sort of gives a general noise to show he is Very Upset with them, and storms out. Bellamy wishes it was an uncommon occurrence. He places both hands on Clarke’s shoulders, once Cage has left. She sighs at the contact, so he digs his thumbs in a little, experimenting, until she lets out a groan.

“Jeeze, how long was he here?” he teases, and Clarke swats him away with one of those flexible soup ladles shaped like the loch ness monster.

“You know Cage--if he isn’t being insufferable, he isn’t breathing.”

“Yeah,” Bellamy agrees, scooting out of her way while she scrambles some eggs on the stove top. “I can totally see him as the sleep-walking type, looming over people with his eyes closed, snarling instead of snoring.”

Clarke grins, which was his real goal anyway, and presses a cup of fresh coffee into his hands, because she knows him. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a caffeine junkie?” she asks, watching as he downs half the mug in one gulp.

“You have. Everyday, approximately fifteen times, for the last four years.”

“You have a problem,” she snorts, turning back to the stove so her food doesn’t burn. The diner isn’t very full this morning, but it’s got a decent amount of patrons sitting at the little round tables scattered along the floor.

“Yeah,” he shakes his mostly-empty mug at her. “I’m almost out of coffee.”

Clarke makes a face, and Bellamy restrains himself from leaning in and kissing her, the same way he’s been restraining himself everyday, approximately fifteen times, for the last four years. “You seem more pouty than usual today. Have you been watching that video about the North and South Korean brothers again?”

“They were separated for  _ fifty-eight years _ , Clarke,” Bellamy says, tearing up like he usually does when he remembers them, and she sighs as she refills his mug. 

“I told you to stop torturing yourself with that while Octavia’s gone.”

He grins and checks his watch impulsively. “She gets back today,” he tells her, and she gives an even bigger, more exasperated sigh.

“I  _ know _ ; you’ve been counting down the days since she left. I even have it on the calendar.” She waves a spatula at the Kittens In Hats calendar dangling from the wall, and Bellamy can see the day circled in red, with  _ O’s back!  _ and little stars doodled all around. The sight of it makes his chest ache. “Don’t you have a hotel to run?”

“It’s an inn,” he corrects, grinning stupidly the way he always does whenever she mentions his recent promotion.

Well--he’s not sure how _ recent _ eight months is, but the novelty certainly hasn’t worn off yet. He straightens up his suit jacket, and Clarke reaches over to tighten up the Windsor knot on his tie. “Your eggs are burning,” he tells her, mostly because she’s way too close and it’s getting hard for him to breathe.

“Liar,” she says, fond, and smacks a kiss to his cheek. “Have a good day managing people.”

“Have fun making food.”

It’s a ritual that they’ve perfected; the sort of morning routine that to anyone else, might look like something a married couple has rehearsed for thirty years, now. Bellamy _ knows _ how it looks, and even worse he knows how they could be, if they just gave themselves the chance.

But as it is, they’re best friends--practically life partners--and if he ever brings it up, it’ll be at the right time, and the right place. He’ll know it.

Arkadia Inn, where Bellamy works, has very little going for it in terms of size, but a _ lot _ in terms of literally everything else. They have an actual _ harp _ player on standby--whose name is Harper, which Bellamy has never let her live down--and a chef that was trained in Paris--whose name, Nathan Miller, is a lot less fun. They have a sort of weird Greek Revival-meets-Baroque vibe going for them, and their receptionist is fluent in twelve different languages.

Bellamy settles in beside her at the front desk. “Good morning, Lexa. Any news on the western front?”

“Which western front?” Lexa asks, not looking up from the guest book. She stares at the pages of it so much that Bellamy isn’t sure how it isn’t just seared into her brain. “The front with the wedding party that we have yet to schedule the catering for, or the front with the dog show guests who are demanding we let their pets stay overnight with them, or the front with the Speech and Debate Tri-State Tournament, which means nearly forty-one pubescent children running around unsupervised through these halls?”

She sounds extremely unimpressed with the entire situation at large, and so Bellamy lays his head on her shoulder. “All of the above.”

She sighs, rustling his hair, and then shrugs him off entirely with a glare as sharp as the gilded letter opener she’s just picked up. “Remember when you hired me specifically for interior design? And then roped me into this hellish position of menial labor?”

“Remember when you nearly ran me over with your car and I declined to press charges?” Bellamy shoots back, and Lexa rolls her eyes.

“That was _ one _ time. I hardly even touched you.”

“I rolled off the side of your hood.”

Lexa waves a hand. “Regardless--you have no idea how many piles of dog feces I have had to clean from the front lawn, because of protesting pet owners.”

Bellamy snorts. “You did not. You probably got one of the teenagers to do it.” Each summer, they get an influx of teenage temporary part-timers. In a village as small as Ark Hollow, there are only so many jobs a high schooler can get. Octavia usually works at the movie theater, cleaning spilled popcorn from between the seat cushions, and puddles of sticky soda up off the floor.

“Yes I did,” Lexa sniffs. “Because I went to school for _ design _ , not for cleaning up animal excrement.” Bellamy makes a face at her.

“Well, I hired you to make our guests happy.”

“Which shows an extreme shortsightedness in judgment,” she says, and promptly picks up the phone. He’s not sure she’s even going to call anyone; she might just want this conversation to be over. She does that, sometimes.

Bellamy makes his rounds through the inn, checking first on Miller, who’s always grouchiest in the mornings before Bryan’s stopped by with the vegetable delivery, and then Harper, who’s busy trying not to kill the Speech and Debate kids that keep touching her harp without permission, and finally back to the entrance hall, just in time for O to walk through the door.

She clearly didn’t bother stopping by their apartment first, since she’s still got her enormous Army-green duffel bag strapped to her back, duct-taped and well-worn lacrosse stick stuffed in the top. Her hair’s greasy, and she’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt that used to be his. It dangles over her sleep shorts, because she probably ran out of clean clothes and couldn’t do laundry at the camp.

When Bellamy first surprised his sister with the idea of a summer away at the camp of her choosing--within reason--he’d been expecting something sort of like _ The Parent Trap _ , with an obstacle course and a lake and crafts hour. But instead Octavia chose the toughest lacrosse camp in the northeast--honestly he’s still not sure why he didn’t see it coming.

“I qualified!” Octavia squeals, like he might have any idea what she’s talking about, before throwing herself in his arms. It’s awkward, since he has to reach around her _ and _ her duffel _ and _ her sports equipment, but they manage. She smells like sweat and sunflower seeds. He’s missed her more than he really cares to let on. Clarke let him spend almost all of his free time with her, but he still always went home to an empty apartment at the end of the day, and that’s something he never wants to do again. He didn’t much care for it.

“That’s awesome, I knew you would,” Bellamy says, clutching her a little too hard before putting her down again. “Qualified for what, exactly?”

Octavia gives an exasperated smile. “Polis Academy,” she says in a rush. “They have the best lacrosse team out of all the schools in Connecticut, and _ I qualified for the team _ !” She squeals a second time, and Bellamy’s _ heard _ of Polis Academy of course, _ everyone _ in the county has heard of Polis Academy. It’s the most prestigious prep school in the state.

Which means it’s probably really expensive. Bellamy isn’t sure he can afford to _ breathe _ Polis air, let alone pay the tuition fees. He’s been doing a lot better recently, due to the promotion. He has a 401-K now, and a little saved up for his retirement. He and Octavia have health care _ and _ dental. But he was sort of banking on the public education system to give him a bit of a cushion before he had to prepare to send her off to college.

“I’m gonna go tell Miller,” O announces, completely oblivious to the fact that her older brother is having a minor aneurism over their finances. To be fair though, Bellamy is nearly always having an aneurism over their finances. It’s been a natural state for him, for years.

 

“Maybe there are scholarships,” Clarke says, when he tells her. Octavia’s at home, taking a nap and hopefully a shower. Bellamy’s back at the diner for an early dinner, or a late lunch, or _ lunner _ , as Clarke likes to call it.

Bellamy smiles a little, not able to help himself. Of course Clarke’s first reaction would be to _ do _ something, to try and fix it. “I already looked,” he sighs. “There aren’t any that will cover her. I make just enough to disqualify us. It’s that fucking promotion,” he adds wryly, and Clarke reaches over to squeeze his wrist.

“We’ll figure it out, Bell,” she says, impossibly earnest, and Bellamy has to swallow his words. “There are always options.”

He gives a dry laugh. “What options? There are no scholarships, they don’t have a payment plan, and they cost ten thousand dollars a semester. There are no options here, Clarke. I just have to tell her she can’t go.” He makes a face at the thought. He’d never seen his sister so excited about anything, her whole life. He _ really _ doesn’t want to see what she looks like when everything falls through.

“There might be another way,” Clarke says, and when he looks up, she’s chewing at her lip, looking nervous. It’s a good look on her, but it makes him nervous too. “I never told you about my parents.”

Bellamy blinks, a little thrown. Clarke’s never mentioned any family at all, aside from a childhood friend named Wells, whom she loved like a brother. “No, you didn’t. I always just assumed you had some sort of tragic orphan backstory.”

Clarke chokes on a laugh, and hits him with a tea towel. “I have parents! They’re upstate. Just a couple hours from here, actually.”

“And I’ve never met them because...?” Honestly, he feels a little insulted. If his mom was still alive, he would have introduced her to Clarke by now.

“It’s less a tragic orphan story and more a tragic disowned story,” she says, and Bellamy reaches for her hand without thinking, threading their fingers together.

“That sucks ass,” he says, because he’s the best at empathy, and Clarke grins.

“It’s okay, I sort of deserved it. You know Lexa and I used to date--”

“ _ Vehemently _ , I think was how Lexa put it,” Bellamy adds, and Clarke pinches the skin between his thumb and forefinger, for interrupting.

“Right. Well, before her I was dating this guy named Finn, and he was,” she fights to find the right word. “Sort of--he was a dick.” She glances at him, to check she hasn’t lost his focus yet.

“Okay,” Bellamy says. “I think I’m still following.”

“Finn and I were only dating for a few weeks, when we had a pregnancy scare. I was seventeen, about to graduate, and terrified--so I told my mom.”

“Who disowned you,” Bellamy finishes flatly, but Clarke shakes her head.

“No, she was really great about it, actually. Offered to take me to the abortion clinic and everything.”

Bellamy flinches automatically. It’s just--he knows his mom almost didn’t keep Octavia, and whenever he thinks about the possibility of a life where his sister doesn’t exist, he feels like someone just punched him in the jaw.

“Yeah,” Clarke says, like she’s reading his thoughts. “We had this big fight about it. Astronomical. And my dad got caught in the middle because he didn’t want to take sides, and then finally I just threw a bunch of things in a bag and called Finn to pick me up. My mom said _ if you walk out that door _ ,” she mimics a lower-pitched woman’s voice, for effect, “ _ Then you’re never walking back in. _ And I left.”

There’s a beat, where Bellamy tries to think of what to say. He has a million questions--namely, what happened to the baby?

“I turned out I wasn’t pregnant, in the end,” Clarke says, softly. “Finn and I broke up soon after. I found out he was cheating on me the whole time. Or maybe with me, I don’t know. Then I ended up here, and Anya gave me a job as a waitress, and let me rent the apartment upstairs. She never had any kids, so she left the whole place to me when she died.”

“The end,” Bellamy finishes for her, and Clarke smiles.

“Not really the end,” she says. “Then, three years later, you walked in.”

 

There’s a lump in Bellamy’s chest that has been steadily growing over the last four years, ever since the first and last date he ever went on with Clarke Griffin. She stopped by the inn to check up on him, as had become her custom, with whatever leftover pie she had in tow.

“There’s a movie showing in the park next Friday,” she mentioned as they wandered down the street, wearing shadows and the low orange glow of the streetlamps.

“Of course there is,” Bellamy snorted, and Clarke gave him a glare.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“This is the most _ Pleasantville _ town I’ve ever seen,” he said, and at Clarke’s blank look he added, “What, you’ve never seen _ Pleasantville _ ?”

“I don’t even know what _ Pleasantville _ is.”

“Well maybe they’ll play in in the park,” he shrugged. “We should go, to find out.” If Clarke was at all charmed by his attempt at flirting, or thought it was funny, she didn’t show it.

She said “It’s a date,” and Bellamy floated the rest of the walk home.

He paid his neighbor Raven, the town mechanic and resident gym rat of the apartment complex, in pizza and free wifi, to watch his sister for the night. Clarke found him waiting on the grass with an old knitted blanket that his mom probably got from a flea market and then lied and said it was handmade. He brought a cheap bottle of wine, just because, and two chipped coffee mugs, because he thought she might be charmed by them.

“Big spender,” she teased when he pried out the cork, and the movie was actually _ Breakfast At Tiffany’s _ , but Bellamy decided it was black and white so close enough.

Afterward, he walked her back to her little apartment above the diner, feeling the buzz of electricity in his bones the whole way, burning with the thought that _ this is it this is it this is it _ . He was going to kiss her under the light of the diner’s neon CLOSED sign, and she was going to pop her leg out like Audrey Hepburn, and he’d finally be able to say all the things he’d been holding back since he first arrived in Ark Hollow.

But instead they got to her front door, and she turned, sudden and too swift for him to react, and threw her arms around his shoulders, burying her face in his neck.

“You’re my best friend, Bellamy Blake,” she whispered, and he knew it by then, of course he did, but it still felt like such a _ friendly _ moment. She was letting him know she wasn’t interested, and that was fine, honestly. He’d rather find out this way, than have her leap back if he tried to kiss her goodnight.

So he said “You’re mine too,” voice muffled by the fake fur of her jacket, and when she pulled back, he swore he saw tears budding in the tangles of her lashes.

He nearly said something about them, but then she smiled and a lump began to form in his chest, of all the things he couldn’t tell her.

 

“Let me get this straight,” Bellamy says, for the fifth time. They’re upstairs in Clarke’s apartment, after she’d decided she deserved to close half a day early, so they could drown their sorrows and reason in a bottle of Jameson that she’s been saving for a special occasion.

“You want to pretend to be _ engaged _ , so that your super rich parents will pay for Octavia’s schooling.”

Clarke nods from where her head is tossed over the arm of the couch, and she wiggles her toes, stretched out in Bellamy’s lap. He catches both of her ankles before she can flail too much and fall off completely.

“That’s insane,” he says, but it sounds more like _ awe _ , than apprehension.

“My parents are _ so _ rich, Bellamy,” Clarke hiccups and then frowns at herself for the interruption. “Like, _ mega _ rich. If rich were a verb, my parents would do it.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” he points out, and she reaches an arm out to pet his hair, unconcerned with her problematic grammar.

“I think we could pull it off,” she says. Sighs, really. A little happy drunk sigh that Bellamy wants to hear for the rest of his life.

It’s possible that Bellamy Blake is a sappy drunk, but he’s not about to test the theory. Denial is his best bet, for the moment.

“We’re practically soul mates,” she continues, which obviously just makes everything _ worse _ . “We’d be perfect together. We’ll convince them easy peasy lemon squeezey, and then O will be on her team!”

“Okay, but I think you’re forgetting one thing,” Bellamy says, as nicely as he can. “Your parents disowned you, remember?”

Clarke’s nose scrunches up in distaste. “That was _ ages _ ago,” she says. “They probably miss me. I miss them. And they like having pet projects, so they’ll _ love _ Octavia. It’s a win-win-win-win-win.”

“Who’s the last win?”

“The world,” Clarke says, sleepy, and promptly falls asleep in his lap.

He should say no. Obviously, he should say no. It’s the only real, viable option. Saying yes would be putting their friendship, his sister’s education, and the entire life he’s built here in Ark Hollow at risk. Saying yes would be a _ lie _ . Saying yes would--

Saying yes would mean being engaged to Clarke Griffin, at least in some capacity. And like she said, they really would be convincing. His sister could go to her dream school and play on her dream team. He could fall asleep like this, with Clarke curled up in his lap like a house cat, warm and soft and snoring in his arms.

Whenever Bellamy has a question he can’t answer for himself, he usually goes to Octavia. But this involves Octavia, and he doesn’t want her to feel like she’s putting any sort of pressure on him, by going to this school.

So that leaves Lexa, and Miller. Bellamy calls them both.

“ _ Bonjeur _ ,” Miller says, because he’s pretentious.

“What,” Lexa says, because she’s an ass.

“I need a lifeline,” Bellamy says, because he’s desperate. Two heavy sighs echo through the phone.

“Whatever you broke, just replace it,” Miller suggests, and Bellamy honestly doesn’t even know why he tries.

“Clarke wants us to pretend to be engaged so her super rich parents will pay for Octavia’s expensive prep school.”

There’s a long pause, which Bellamy sort of wants to revel in. It’s certainly the longest he’s ever heard either of them go without being a smart ass.

Finally, Miller says “Why engaged?” right as Lexa demands “Clarke has _ parents _ ?”

“ _ Right _ ?” Bellamy says, sort of to both of them. “I thought she was a runaway orphan or something.”

“No, that’s _ Oliver Twist _ ,” Miller says helpfully.

“Or _ Huckleberry Finn _ ,” Lexa adds. “Runaway orphans are quite the popular literary motif.” Miller hums in agreement, and Bellamy contemplates just hanging up.

“How rich is super rich?” Miller asks, sounding thoughtful.

“Apparently if rich was a verb, they would do it.”

“What is that, a slogan?” Lexa asks. “It’s ridiculous. Anyhow, you could always just ask the bank for a loan.”

“I don’t have anything to put up for collateral,” Bellamy sighs. “Would it be crazy if I said yes? It’s crazy, right?”

“Yes,” they say simultaneously. It might be the first time they’ve ever agreed on something. The thought is disconcerting.

“But,” Miller adds, “I can kind of see it, to be honest. You and Clarke have always been a little,” there’s a pause and Bellamy assumes he’s made some vague hand gesture. “You know?”

“Nauseatingly close and cliche,” Lexa interprets. Bellamy thinks it should probably be weird, discussing his fake love life with his fake fiance’s real ex girlfriend, who is also one of his best friends. Actually, it’s definitely weird, but he’s going with it.

“Thanks, you guys are super helpful,” Bellamy snaps, and Miller lets out a low whistle.

“You’re the one that called us, man, and I have no idea why. I’m trying and failing to hit on the town vegetable farmer, and Lexa hasn’t gotten laid in _ months _ .”

“I’m saving myself for Nathalie Emmanuel,” Lexa sniffs, defensive.

“We are all sort of wildly inept when it comes to this sort of thing,” Bellamy sighs. “Thanks for trying, I guess.”

“You’re going to do it, aren’t you,” Miller says, sounding thoroughly disappointed in him.

“Definitely, yeah,” Bellamy cheers, and hangs up the phone.

 

As it turns out, Bellamy’s expecting the whole _ fake engaged _ thing to be a lot harder than it actually is.

“What did you think it would mean?” Clarke asks, clearly amused, as she pours him a cup of coffee at the counter. Bellamy is doing his best not to pout.

“I don’t know, I’ve never been fake engaged to anyone before. Don’t I have to memorize the names and ages and pets of all your extended relatives?”

Clarke studies him for a moment. “Like in _ Anastasia _ ?”

“You’ve seen _ Anastasia _ but not _ Pleasantville.” _

“ _ No one’s _ heard of _ Pleasantville _ ,” Clarke says, exasperated. “And no, you don’t have to learn the names of anyone. My mom is Doctor Abigail Griffin. My dad is Doctor Jake Griffin. You can call him Jake, but call her Ma’am. That’s all there is.”

“No aunts? Uncles? Cousins three times removed?”

Clarke sighs and glances around to make sure no customers are in need, before slinking around the counter so she can sink against his side. “Nope. Just mom, dad, and me. Well,” she makes a face. “It _ used to be _ mom, dad, and me.”

Bellamy presses a kiss to her hair as she plays with his hand absently. “It’ll be _ and you _ again soon, Clarke.”

“And _ us _ ,” she says, and the lump in his chest tightens.

It’ll burst eventually, he knows. He was never that good at physics, but he remembers enough. Chemical reactions.

But until then, he has her now, like this, slotted in against him like she belongs here. He’ll let her stay as long as she wants.

Octavia’s getting dressed for their dinner, when he comes home. She’s taken his exasperated _ please dress appropriately _ from that morning to heart apparently, wearing a sundress he doesn’t recognize, that makes her look like she spends her free time sunbathing by the pool and praying to Jesus.

“You look nice,” he says, but it sounds too suspicious to pass as a compliment. Octavia rolls her eyes at him in the mirror.

“You don’t. When was the last time you brushed your hair? Oh my god, not since I left, have you? Bell you’re such a mess.”

“Yeah I was really losing it here on my own,” he says, dry, even though it’s sort of the truth. Octavia clicks her tongue at him and starts fiddling with his hair, trying to get it to lay right.

“Like Clarke wasn’t here almost every night,” she says pointedly, and it feels like an accusation.

Bellamy clears his throat a little, and hopes it isn’t too obvious. “You know this is just fake, right? Clarke and I aren’t really engaged.”

“I know,” she says. “Clarke told me everything already, because she knew you’d freak out about putting pressure on me, or lying to me, or whatever. Honestly Bell,” she sighs, as satisfied with his hair as she’s going to get, and moves onto her earrings next. They’re little pearl studs, probably borrowed from Clarke, and she’s even taken her cartilage hoops and industrial out. She’s putting in some serious effort to look the part.

“When do you talk to Clarke?”

“Whenever you aren’t hogging her.”

Bellamy reaches over and messes up her hair a little, so she blows a raspberry in his face. And then they get sort of preoccupied hitting each other with towels, wrapped and spun around so they snap.

That’s how Clarke finds them, when she picks them up in her tiny Nissan. She looks like a version of Clarke that Bellamy’s never seen--all sheer tights and rows of pearls and pressed golden curls and red lipstick. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s staring, and that’s why she looks so pleased.

“Whenever you two are ready,” O says, elbowing him in the side, and Bellamy shoves her shoulder.

“You look amazing,” Bellamy tells Clarke, when he thinks his sister is out of earshot, doing her best to make it to the driver’s seat first, like that might somehow convince them all she should drive.

“So do you,” Clarke says. “I like your hair.” And Octavia must have been able to hear them after all, because she preens.

The drive is only a couple of hours, just like Clarke said, but it’s a couple of hours filled with jittery legs and nail biting and _ what if’s _ bouncing around inside Bellamy’s head, giving him a migraine. What if they don’t want to see Clarke or her fiance and her fiance’s sister? What if they don’t believe Clarke and Bellamy are engaged? What if they don’t want to help out Octavia?

Clarke’s voice announcing their arrival is what jars Bellamy out of his thoughts, only to be swallowed whole by the magnanimity that is the Griffin estate.

“What the fuck,” Bellamy says, taking everything in.

“I tried to tell you,” Clarke sighs, and they file out of the car one by one.

Bellamy feels her hand, fake engagement ring on her finger, fold itself into his. “Game time.”

 

All in all, dinner goes pretty horribly.

Bellamy manages to spill soup on his lap no less than three times, Clarke drinks her weight in brandy and only eats the French bread, so she ends up pretty wasted by the time the dessert plates come out, and Octavia looks mostly sullen and irritated, nothing like a good investment.

Abby Griffin is a fierce looking woman, kind of like what Bellamy imagines the Ice Queen might look like, if she was retired, and glaring at him. Jake Griffin is quite a bit warmer, and seems just generally happy that everyone’s there.

Everything goes as possibly bad as he could have imagined; they bring up politics, and the war, and higher education. They ask about his mother, offer their condolences when he says that she’s dead, ask about his father, stay quiet when he says that he never knew him, dance around the question of his and Octavia’s genealogy until finally O snaps that her dad was probably some drug addict looking for a quick score.

“Oh my,” says Abby Griffin, and Bellamy feels all of his organs shift down as low as they can go, until he genuinely thinks he might just sink into the floor and die there.

“Well you two must have had a difficult go of it,” Jake Griffin muses over shared brandy. “It’s nice at least that you had each other.”

Bellamy and O share a glance over the table, a warm look and small smile. They were sort of lucky, in a shitty way. Even while they were scraping together dropped coins in the fast food parking lots, they did have each other. Bellamy wouldn’t have wanted to be poor and homeless with anyone else.

Clarke grips his hand throughout all of it, so tight that her knuckles go white where the skin stretches, and her nails dig little half moons into his palm.

“So, Octavia, I hear you’re a star athlete,” Abby Griffin tries, steering the conversation into a more neutral territory. 

“Yeah, I’m awesome,” O agrees, and Bellamy stretches out a leg to try and kick her under the table. O makes a face at him and tries to kick him back, but her legs can’t reach, and Clarke downs the rest of her alcohol in a single gulp.

“That must be very exciting,” Jake Griffin says, pointedly ignoring the siblings’ fight. “Is that sport popular at your school?”

It feels too good of an opening to  _ not _ be scripted, and Bellamy sees Clarke shoot her father a wink.

“Actually no,” O says, settling into her practiced role effortlessly. She was on the drama club the year before, and while she decided that ultimately it wasn’t for her, she definitely came away with some acting skills. “I go to public school and they don’t have a lacrosse team because they don’t have enough funding.”

“Oh that’s too bad,” Abby Griffin says. “I suppose the funding goes to all those fine arts everyone is always talking about.”

“Yeah, everybody knows those fine arts take  _ all _ the money,” Clarke grumbles, and Bellamy rubs a thumb over her knuckles, soothing. He knows she was an art geek in high school; maybe that gave her mom some sort of vendetta against all things  _ art _ .

“But I actually got into Polis Academy, and was offered a spot on  _ their _ lacrosse team,” O says, and Mr. and Mrs. Griffin perk up immediately.

“Oh, well we know Polis Academy,” Abby Griffin says. “That’s a very fine school. Congratulations.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t go,” O says, puffing her lower lip out, and Bellamy mimes  _ reign it in.  _ “We just can’t afford it, even with my brother’s promotion.”

“Oh yes, what is it you do again?” Abby asks, and that’s the third time Bellamy spills his soup.

“I manage an inn,” he splutters, as Clarke helps him mop up his spill--which involves her hands touching his inner thigh a lot, while he does his best to ignore it.

“An inn?” Jake asks.

“An inn,” Bellamy repeats.

“Is that the same as a bed and breakfast?” Abby wonders.

“Oh no dear, they’re very different,” her husband says.

“Well what’s the difference? They seem similar to me.” They both turn to Bellamy, as if he might have the answers.

“Uh,” he says, and Clarke interrupts.

“Is it time for dessert? I think I heard Jackson ring the bell for desserts.”

“What bell?” Abby frowns. “For Heaven’s sake, there isn’t a  _ desserts _ bell, Clarke Marie.”

Bellamy meets O’s eyes over the table, and she mouths  _ Clarke Marie! _

He’s definitely tucking that bit of trivia away for later.

“Must have been a different bell,” Clarke says sweetly, and Bellamy watches her mother’s face go dark.

“Inns and bed and breakfasts really do have quite a lot of similarities,” he blurts. “They both have--rooms. And beds. And breakfast.” He has to physically stop himself from just laying his head down on the table and giving up. On everything.

“And desserts,” Clarke adds helpfully.

Everything goes wrong--and then Mr. and Mrs. Griffin write them a check for ten thousand dollars, and hand it to them at the door.

“We’ll see you all next Friday,” Abby says, closing the door behind them.

Bellamy blinks and stares down at the check in his hands until the numbers start to blur together. “What just happened?”

“You just sold our souls to the devil, that’s what just happened,” Octavia hisses, and Clarke doesn’t even disagree.

 

“I just can’t believe it worked,” Bellamy says, even though it’s been thirteen days since that first dinner with the Griffin’s, and they’ve already had their second one too. It’s a school holiday for Octavia, a teacher’s work day or something, and she’s been fiddling with her new school-issued lacrosse stick in the living room all afternoon. She’s got her legs up on the coffee table, and most of her torso sprawled out over him, while the TV plays old reruns of _ Ed, Edd n’ Eddy _ .

“Why not?” she asks. “You and Clarke are practically married already. It’s not like you guys are _ subtle _ .”

“Yeah, but we’re just friends,” Bellamy says, and his sister snorts but doesn’t respond. He jiggles his shoulder until her head is dislodged, and she tips it back to glare at him.

“You know you can’t lie to me,” she sighs. “I don’t know why you even try. You’re in love with Clarke. Don’t deny it.”

“I’m not,” Bellamy says, petulant. “It’s the Clarke being in love with me part that you’ve got wrong.”

Octavia goes a little soft, like she does whenever she sees his shirt’s inside out, or his contacts have run out so he has to wear the crooked pair of glasses that he hates. She goes soft whenever she feels sorry for him. But then to his surprise, his kid sister goes impossibly earnest. “You know that no matter what happens with Clarke, or her parents, or the school--you know you’ve got me, right?”

Bellamy grins, pulling her in by her shoulders, and she doesn’t even try to fight the hug. “Yeah,” he says. “I know I’ve got you. You’ve got me too.”

“Is it shitty that I’m glad you’ve got me, and not mom?” she asks, and honestly he’s been waiting for this conversation for a very long time. Ever since the funeral, when Octavia refused to let herself cry until no one else was watching.

“Nah,” he sighs. “I’m glad I’ve got you and not mom, too. You’ll always be my number one.”

Octavia holds out a single finger, nail painted bright blue with pink polka dots. “Even if you and Clarke get married and have babies?”

Bellamy very pointedly does not choke, but it’s a near thing. He does hit her in the face with a pillow though. “Yeah, even if me and Clarke get married and have babies.”

“Good,” Octavia decides, resettling the pillow on his stomach so she can lay down again.

 

Bellamy’s in the middle of reciting a grocery list when he walks into the kitchen, only to look up and find Miller and Bryan, half-dressed and scrambling for cover. Bryan ducks behind the wire fruit shelf, apparently not realizing that Bellamy can still see him through the gaps in the shelves.

Miller gives up on finding a hiding place and instead just sort of  _ smirks _ as he slowly buttons his shirt.

“In the  _ kitchen _ ,” Bellamy says, doing his best to stay irritated, even though it’s  _ hard _ . He knows Miller’s been trying to ask Bryan out for ages, and it seems like he’s finally done it. Truthfully, as his best friend, he’s proud.

As his manager, he’s definitely irritated. 

“It was this, or one of the guest rooms, and I’m more afraid of Lexa than I am of you,” Miller shrugs, which is fair.

“It will never happen again,” Bryan promises, and Miller rolls his eyes and smacks a kiss to his bright red, embarrassed cheek. 

“Don’t count on it.”

Bellamy is passing by Raven’s door on his way to his own apartment, when it swings open, and he nearly runs into Lexa headon. He frowns down at her, bewildered.

“Since when are you friends with Raven?”

“We aren’t,” Lexa snaps, reaching up to fiddle with her messy braid, errant strands of hair fallen all around the sides of her face. “Or  _ I’m _ not, rather. We’re--acquaintances. We have mutual friends,” she waves at him, as exhibit A.

Bellamy raises a brow. Her clothes aren’t as clean-lined and pressed as they normally are, her hair is untidy, and her lipstick looks just barely smeared at the corners. After a moment of studying, the picture clicks into place nicely, a proverbial lightning bulb going on in his brain.

“Oh my god,” he says, grinning down at her scowl. “You just had  _ sex _ ! And with  _ Raven _ !” He remembers the first time he ever saw Lexa and Raven together; Raven was checking a customer’s oil in the parking lot and Lexa was trying to get her to move the whole ordeal to her garage, down the street. It was a shouting match--he got half a dozen complaints about them. Honestly he’s a little surprised they didn’t end up killing each other.

“One more word and I will eviscerate you,” Lexa tells him shortly, and sets her shoulders back, to stalk off, but Bellamy calls her back.

“I promise not to make fun of you,” he tells her. “Too much, anyway. You know Miller and Bryan finally hooked up today too? I walked in on them in the kitchen.”

“Yes well, it was only a matter of time,” Lexa sniffs. “I suppose that means it won’t be long now, for you and Clarke?” She eyes him pointedly, but Bellamy shrugs her off.

“Yeah, yeah. Congrats on getting laid, Lexa.”

“I wish I could say the same to you,” she says, and he flips her off. “Be sure to call the cake maker for the Kaplan wedding tomorrow.”

“Isn’t that your job?”

“I can’t be expected to do  _ everything _ for you, Blake. Have a little self sufficiency.” 

Bellamy walks in to find Octavia sitting at the table with a bloody nose, and her classmate Atom holding a paper towel to stop the bleeding.

“What the  _ fuck _ ,” he hisses, tipping her head back so he can inspect the damage. 

“You should see the other guy,” O jokes, and Bellamy frowns at her. “It was a scrimmage; I wasn’t paying attention and got a stick to the face, but I’m  _ fine _ , honest. Atom gave me a ride home,” she adds, eyes sparkling, and Bellamy turns his frown on the senior boy standing next to them.

“Thanks Atom,” he says dryly. “You can give yourself a ride home, now.”

O throws a balled up bloody paper towel at Bellamy’s face, after he leaves. “Why are you such a boob?”

Bellamy makes a face at her, and hands over a new, dampened towel for her to use. “So, you and  _ Atom _ \--”

“We’re just friends,” she sighs, voice muffled and nasally.

Bellamy takes a second chair and turns it around so he can straddle the back of it, laying his arms across the top. “But you want to be more than friends?”

“I dunno,” she lies. “Maybe. He’s graduating soon.”

“Yeah, but he’s not graduating before prom, right?” Bellamy teases, and she lays the towel over her face so he won’t see her smile. He nudges her leg with his toe. "You know you can talk to me about anything, right? Even  _dreamy_ older boys with stupid names."

"Oh my god he didn't  _choose_ his name, Bell," O sighs. "But yeah, I know. And you know you can talk to me about  _dreamy_ rich diner girls who are almost as grumpy as you."

"I feel like we're about the same level of grumpiness," Bellamy muses, because he's past denying his feelings when it comes to his sister, by now. "How do you even measure grumpiness?"

O pretends to think about it. "In pounds."

Clarke’s in a huff when she picks them up for that night’s dinner.

“What’s wrong?” Bellamy asks, eyeing her outfit. She’s still in her clothes from the diner. Her mom’s going to have a fit. 

“Cage Wallace wants to--Jesus Christ, what happened to you?” she asks O, who  _ is _ dressed the part, although the enormous black eye she’s sporting sort of distracts from her nice evening wear.

“I took up caped crusading,” she deadpans and slips into the backseat. 

“Lacrosse,” Bellamy sighs. “What’s going on with Cage?”

“He’s after me about the town egg hunt,” Clarke makes a face. “Easter isn’t for another two months! You remember what happened last year, when he started hiding the eggs early?”

Bellamy cringes as he thinks back. “Rotten eggs were everywhere.”

“The whole town smelled like hell,” Clarke agrees. “You’d think he would have learned his lesson!”

“That would imply that Cage Wallace could learn anything at all,” Bellamy says, and it gets Clarke to grin, which was the main goal. He reaches over to take her hand. “If anyone can stop him, it’s you.”

“What if I just kill him, and be done with it?”

“I’ll help you hide the body,” Bellamy offers. “And O will, too.”

“O will what?” Octavia asks. She’s distracted by some game app on her phone.

“We’re helping Clarke hide a body,” he tells her, and she nods without looking up.

“Oh, yeah, I’ll help.” 

Bellamy turns back to Clarke with a bright smile. “See? We’ve got your back.”

She squeezes his hand as they turn into her parents’ ridiculously lavish drive. “Yeah,” she grins. “I know.”

“Ah, Bellamy,” Jake greets them at the door, and hands him a glass of sherry. He notices O, and his eyes go wide. “Good heavens child, what happened?”

O gives a wolfish grin, the entire expression made even more menacing by her battle wounds. “Athletics, sir.”

“Well good for you,” he crows, and offers her a glass filled just a third full. “I believe that deserves a drink.” He glances at Bellamy, to make sure it’s alright, and hands it over once he’s nodded. O looks a little too excited for his liking.

Abby is in the sitting room, holding the copy of  _ Cobblestone Magazine _ that he let her borrow last time. “Ah, Bellamy,” she says. It’s become a standard greeting. Honestly, he's pretty sure they actually _like_ him, and he'd be a lot more smug about it if they didn't only like him because they thought he was engaged to their daughter, and he was essentially conning them for money. “I do like this article on James Monroe, you were right. Octavia, whatever happened?”

“It was the lacrosse, Abby,” Jake says, following them in. 

“I see. Did you score?” Abby asks.

“I won,” O says, and they actually  _ applaud _ . Between the tuition money, the sherry and the clapping, Bellamy’s worried she might be getting spoiled.

When he brought up that concern to Clarke, she just laughed, which seemed a little rude until she patted him on the shoulder. “There’s no way she’ll become some ungrateful spoiled princess, Bell. She’s going to be great no matter what, because you raised her.”

“One of my teammates, Indra, sharpened the end of her lacrosse stick to a shank,” O mentions. In the last several weeks of dinners, she’s become increasingly comfortable around the Griffins, ever since Abby Griffin first let her eat the green olives out of her dry martini. Clarke was right; they really do like their pet projects.

“I say,” Abby says. She’s since given up on trying to teach O to sit with her ankles crossed. “Isn’t that quite dangerous?”

O shrugs. “Only if you get in her way.”

Clarke tugs Bellamy upstairs after their after-dinner tea, while Octavia regales her parents with a play-by-play of her last scrimmage. 

“Who were these stairs made for, elephants?” Bellamy teases. There’s a fucking lion’s head carved into the banister. “Or gryphons? Were your ancestors actual  _ gryphons _ , Clarke? I guess that would make sense, with the name.”

Clarke just rolls her eyes and tugs him down the immaculate hall, towards a closed door. 

“Oh my god,” he says. “Are you about to show me your childhood bedroom? I have been waiting for this moment my whole life.”

“You didn’t even know me your whole life,” Clarke points out, but then she’s opening the door and he sees a lot of pink and frills and fancy pillows, just like he’s always imagined.

“I sort of feel like I knew you before I ever met you,” he admits, walking over to inspect the clutter on her bookshelf. It looks just like a rich teenage girl’s room would, like it’s been completely untouched all these years.

“Yeah me too,” Clarke agrees, watching him go through her things. “I’m glad you get along with my dad.”

“You don’t think I get along with your mom?” he asks, picking up a little porcelain dog with an extra-long tail, to hold rings on it. “I think she’s warmed up to me a little. She read the kids’ magazine I gave her. We  _ bonded  _ over our fifth American president, Clarke.”

“No, I’m glad you get along with her too, but--my dad and I were always the closest, you know? So it just means a lot, that you like each other.”

It sounds like the sort of thing a  _ couple _ might talk about, after meeting the parents.

Which means, obviously, that Bellamy has to completely ruin the moment.

“Well, it’s not like you can earn my mom’s approval or anything, so I just have to work harder for the both of us.” He finds a Magic 8 Ball and thinks  _ will Clarke and I ever be anything more than best friends?  _ He gives it a shake. Ask again later.

Clarke reaches over and takes the ball from his hands, setting it down so he’ll face her. “You know I would want to meet her, right?” she asks, looking earnest. “If she was alive. I want to see where you grew up, too. I want to poke around your kid stuff and make fun of your stupid boy posters of Tomb Raider, or whatever.” She’s still looking up at him openly, like she needs him to  _ get _ this. Like she needs him to understand that it goes both ways.

Bellamy’s mouth is dry, so he has to lick his lips. “Her name was Lara Croft,” he says, “And she was a very complex character.”

Clarke snorts. “ _ Whatever _ .” Downstairs, Jackson rings a bell.

“I’m guessing that wasn’t the desserts bell,” Bellamy teases, and Clarke shakes her head and turns. The moment is over, and he can breathe again.

“Totally different, unrelated bell,” she agrees, and he follows her downstairs.

 

Bellamy’s still at the inn, setting up the veranda for _ another _ wedding party, when Clarke shows up.

It’s been three months since they started their fake engagement, and the lump in his chest is getting closer and closer to its brink.

Honestly, even more than the holding hands, even more than the small talk with her parents, or explaining how he proposed, or the lipstick prints she leaves on his cheek when she kisses him--it’s the falling asleep together after late nights watching _ Dark Shadows _ , waking up to her hair in his mouth and her nose in his neck and her legs all wrapped up in his.

It’s the fact that he actually _ likes _ her parents, that he was the one Clarke clung to after she reconciled with her mom, and cried. That he likes the way she sings along to the radio off-key for the whole drive there, and falls asleep against the passenger side window on the way back, warm breath leaving little bursts of fog on the glass there.

It’s the fact that sometimes he’ll see her glance down at the ring on her hand, and smile to herself, like it’s real.

Bellamy came to terms with the fact that Clarke might never see him as more than they were, that night after the movie in the park. But he’s starting to think that maybe...

Clarke finds him in the gazebo, trying to arrange the hyacinth bouquets by size, and he jumps when he hears her clear her throat.

She’s fresh from the diner, plaid shirt sleeves rolled up and a new coffee stain on the thigh of her blue jeans, hair a wild tangled mess on her head.

He knows her parents offered to take her back, to help her get her degree, find a new, _ nice _ job, in a _ nice _ town, and he knows that she turned them down. He knows she said no for the diner, for Ark Hollow, for the life that she’s built her on her own.

But he can’t help thinking that maybe, she said no for him, too.

She’s shaking, he realizes suddenly. Shaking and looking like she might fall over at any moment. Bellamy frowns and takes a step closer. “Clarke, what--”

“I watched _ Pleasantville,” _ she blurts, and Bellamy stares at her. “That night, after our date in the park. I looked it up online and I got a virus on my computer because the torrent website was shitty.”

Bellamy’s grin starts slow, but Clarke clearly isn’t finished, and she shakes her head, warning him to stay quiet.

“I want to watch every movie you love, read every book that you tell me about. I fucking hate Nirvana, but you like Nirvana so I actually bought _ five _ of their CD’s. _ Five _ . I’m starting to like them. A little. I--you know that painting you bought me? I hung it above my bed, so I can see it every morning, and think about you. I think about you all the time, I can’t stop, it’s like--it’s like a _ sickness _ . Everyday I wake up with the same symptoms and I keep waiting to be cured, I keep waiting for my immune system to get used to you and build itself up so one day I won’t wake up and _ ache _ for you, but it never happens. There’s no cure, there’s no special shot I can get so I can magically un-love you. I love you, I’m in love with you, I’m so--” she cuts herself off with a gasp, and Bellamy’s stomach lurches when he realizes she’s _ crying _ .

“I came up with this whole stupid--” she flashes the ring, “Just so that maybe you could see us how _ I _ see us, and maybe you’d realize how good we are together, how good we _ could _ be, if you, if we just--”

“Fuck,” Bellamy says, and he crosses over and kisses her. Her cheeks are wet and she’s still shaking under his hands, but she clings to him, and he feels her tears smear against his skin.

“I love you too,” he pulls back, but just a little because her arms are looped around his neck and she won’t let him go far. “I’ve been in love with you for _ years _ .”

Clarke gives the ghost of a laugh and kisses him, she keeps kissing him, even as he tries to angle them towards the exit.

“What are you doing,” she growls, in between breaths. “I’m _ trying _ to make out, here.”

Bellamy raises a brow. “Did you want to make out here, or did you want to make out in a bed?”

She only pauses for a moment. “Yes,” she says, half-shoving him outside as he laughs. “ _ Yes. _ ”

Their hands tangle together as they walk, and it takes twice as long because they keep stopping to kiss again, like they have to keep reminding themselves that _ this is real, they can have this, they can have this for the rest of their lives _ .

“I really wanted this to be real,” Clarke whispers as his mouth trails down her neck, and he glances up to see her looking at the ring. He reaches up to trace a finger over the metal band.

“The next one will be.”

 

Bellamy wakes up and stumbles out to the kitchen, to find I TOLD YOU SO spelled out in the big chunky magnet letters on the fridge, along with a little note taped up with Octavia’s friend Zoe’s phone number. He grins. His sister’s going to give him shit when she gets home, but then he wanders back into his bedroom to find Clarke Griffin sitting up with a yawn in the early daylight, hair a mess and little bruises down her chest the same shape as his mouth, and it’s worth it. It’s so, so worth it.

"Does this mean I won't actually be lying to your parents anymore?" he asks and grins when she makes a face.

“Coffee?” she mumbles sleepily, and he shakes his head. She frowns. “What kind of person doesn’t have coffee? How do _ you _ not have _ coffee _ ?”

“I don’t keep it in the house,” he shrugs. “It was always my excuse to go see you.”

Clarke grins, soft and warm, and reaches for him. He sinks down with her on the bed. “I guess we can always get some later,” she decides with a sigh, and Bellamy pulls her close.

“Later sounds good.”


End file.
